


queen of hearts

by orphan_account



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: M/M, Modern Royalty, Modern Setting, Romantic Comedy, Well almost everyone, Whatever you call it, everyone gay, mostly dealor :), or joger, roger is king
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-03 21:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19472836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: All John had asked for, was a job. Yet the world decided to throw him a ballistic package of a useless best friend, useless best friend’s hot boyfriend, roommates who are extremely busy playing tongue tennis to make the apartment habitable and a royal monarch who is too interested in him for his sanity to last.





	1. Part 1

"Employment? You? Need? I'm sorry am I hearing these things right?" the sarcastic laugh merged with pure hilarity is radiating from the phone on John's ear and since there is not much that can be done about that for a) Freddie is a wench and has the area responsible for feelings, courtesy and the like permanently numbed out from his cortex and b) John is quite a hopeless bugger at the moment; having to resign from his job despite a long line of qualifications sitting on his resume.

He bites down his lips. Just this once he's going to let Freddie have his entertainment.

"I need a fucking job, Fred. And this is the last time I'm calling you for favours–screw that, this is the last time I'm calling you for anything," he says, so annoyed that if you’d put a thermometer on his forehead it’d probably blow up the bulb.

"Pssh everyone knows I'm your nanny and you need mittens from my supply once in a while," Freddie snickers, leaving John fazed with how the guy has the audacity and spirit to insult people every two seconds. Maybe that’s why they pay him the big bucks for being an editor of notable standing.

As much as John would like to run past security and barge into Freddie's office, all to give him a lecture on how he is most certainly not dependent on him, he knows all brawls end in the same way: Freddie mentioning that one time he'd gotten lost in a farm enclave and crying so miserably, even calling Freddie ‘mommy’ when he came to rescue him from a herd of enraged pigs.

Okay, maybe John admits he's been quite well looked after by Freddie so far.

That, precisely being one of the reasons why he wants a job of his own. One that paid enough so that he could move out of Brian's apartment and leave him to make out with Anita at peace, one that would give him a sense of independence, privacy and freedom. Such nice words- in his head only, of course.

Currently, John is met by a waitress smiling flirtatiously at him and he's too pissy to return it, Freddie's choked laughter is injuring his eardrum even though two tables behind him is a guy blasting MCR from a boom box. (seriously boom box?)

"How about this, you give me a blowjob and then I'd consider it," Freddie says and John's cheek, unfortunately, pressed speaker at the word blowjob.

This guy is impossible.

The waitress slams John’s breakfast on the table, splattering the tea onto his croissant and simultaneously making the flower vase sputter some water out of it too. John is not shocked, Freddie likes to form disgusting innuendos and as all best friends do, he bears with it.

"Gross Freddie, nobody's gonna give you a blow even in your fantasia slash afterlife," John says, already developing a migraine.

"Then forget about your job Deaky."

"You are an incredibly useless best friend," John says and hangs up before Freddie can reply with a buoyant 'thank you! I'm glad to have been of no service since that’s what I intended in the first place!'

Rather uselessly himself, John eenie-meenies his fingers over the stack of novels on the restaurant table which he'd just bought. He could use some inspiration, having often thought about writing a book. But he sure as hell won’t send it to Freddie’s publishing house. They're basically comparable to leviathans on manhunt.

John has to refrain from asking how the restaurant even allowed people to bring in boom boxes once the annoying music begins blaring louder from behind him. He figures his in-dire-straits situation needs some emo so he moons over nothing while picking on the bits of croissant.

****** 

John is not an early riser. He’s tried though, to mimic how Freddie wakes up at 4 sharp and runs around spraying disinfectants on the floor, wall, ceiling and emptying the bottle of air freshener till everyone else in his house wakes up suffocating and puke-ish.

But then his previous job required him to be present at seven-thirty at the least and for John, who gets up at something between a nine and eleven, it just counted as one of the many things unappealing about his job. Sure he was an assistant to his favourite designer but as misfortune deemed, his favourite designer happened to have a thousand assistants on the same footing as him and never acknowledged any of them.

John needs a job where he'd be appreciated, so he figured Freddie was the right person to ask because well, he's unarguably on the better end of the social spectrum. Even though he could protest that Freddie has an insufferable personality, it’s not like his current acquaintances have known him since preschool like John does, they’re all usually after his money.

Somehow, by sorcery or powers unknown, last year, Freddie managed to conjure up a very impressive glamour of amiability and hit on his boss' son. He hasn’t been successful since.

As nature would have it (and John felt it was very just) Freddie's boss' son, a consultant for royal constructions and a rather posh though amateur architect named Jim Hutton, happened to take inexplicable delight in putting all the roses that Freddie kept sending to court him, into shredding machines.

In John's opinion, both think too highly of themselves to ever get together. It's not like he cares but it'd finally get Freddie, who constantly pleads for Burnout Paradise sessions every Friday with him, off his back for once. A game isn't fun if your best friend keeps beating you at it.

In amidst his pitiable state, the cryptex of his life might have gotten one combination right, he happens to have one friend who still has all the screws intact on his head. He might live miles away, but he's withal, reliable.

He texts Veronica on the way to the park in the morning and prays for a reply as he jogs, breathing in the cold morning air that makes his nostrils strain.

He needs to learn how to be an early riser, John reminds himself with every jog, in favour of improving his work ethic; letting the rhythm of his fast-paced heart match with his steps but then a book drops on his head from the sky.

"OW! FREDDIE!" he yells after realising he was on the pavement under Freddie's polish looking house. He couldn’t see why he lived in this neighbourhood which ridiculously looked like a ctrl+c children’s picture book, with pastel-coloured buildings and flowerpots under windows and whatnot.

Freddie defensively urges his hands through the window above him, "Just wanted to check if it was really you this early in the morning! Sorry!"

"You better make up for this!"

"Will waffles do?"

John doesn’t notice his phone vibrating with Veronica's text.

******

"You need to fix this disgusting habit of yours," Jim says, arms crossed over his chest and looking infuriated.

John walks into Fred sitting on the bed with his face facing the floor, looking very guilty and apologetic that naming the expressions John Deacon has never had the privilege enough to see on his face until now. He's never seen Jim angry either since he's always so bright and smiley in those pictures Freddie often used to excitedly thrust into his face while gushing over him during continuous hours of facebook stalking.

"I understand, I won’t do it again," Fred mumbles honestly.

"Really now that’s childish, is this how you treat your friend? Godammit apologise if you still want to meet my mum!"

Previously occupied by being delighted by Freddie's kicked face, it now strikes John that he is in Fred's room with there’s a very angry looking Jim obliterating Freddie with his gaze and he can help but notice Jim's wearing nothing but a crumpled seaweed coloured shirt and the place reeks of sex and oh.

Ignoring the fact that John is now officially free from his obligation to spend Fridays with Freddie, the human embodiment of a headache, since he now has a boyfriend, he jumps with joy inside because Jim's commanding Fred to apologise to him, this is the fucking best day of his life.

"Fine. I'm sorry Deaky, dear. You will no longer be annoyed by me it's a promise," Freddie begrudgingly mutters and then his face crumples up with the bitter taste of those uncharacteristic words.

"I want a bond, not a promise," John blurts and then goes over to shake Jim's hand who retracts it. Once John gets why he did that and he shudders visibly, making them both laugh.

"I know we've just met but please marry him, it'll do the whole world a lot of good," he says, after introductions neither needed. Jim's known John as the only decent person besides himself who’s willing to put up with Fred and John knows Jim fairly well, Freddie's been quite in love with him for two years for his best friend to not know.

Jim laughs too loud at that last remark and Fred, green with jealously aside from the fact that he can't really stand anyone making fun of him so he protectively pulls Jim to his side and flaps a hand in front of John, "Okay kid, I'll find you a job. Waffles are in the kitchen, relationship and job details tomorrow, you can watch TV downstairs-"

"Freddie that's not fair!"

"Hello? The love of my life is here and you expect me to pay attention to you?" Freddie insinuates in a way that makes John question how Jim even breathes in this man’s presence when he gives him pathetic monikers like ‘the love of my life’. He would so get dumped for this if it was him.

"I thought you didn’t like him, heh," John wonders out loud and Jim clarifies. "I knew he wasn’t going to ask me out and keep sending me roses I’m allergic to so I asked him out last night. And here we are." The last part sounds cringe-worthy though euphoric and it's actually convincing if the picture of them both hadn’t looked as perfect as it does.

By this time, Jim's found himself a place on Freddie's lap on the bed and he probably shouldn't interrupt them, Fred's finally got what he’s wanted for so long.

And look at him; he's still searching for a job that could satisfy him since he’s still muddled up in beliefs of his own.

Why does Freddie have to get everything? The universe has always been biased towards the richer perhaps.

"But tomorrow, you’re buying me food– lots of food or I disown you," John warns while making an exit and after waving bye to Jim.

Freddie scoffs, “We all know who's going to suffer the most if you do that, I fucking brought you up, son."

John doesn’t hear that, he's at last, getting a job he assumes will be good enough for him, not like the time when he was the designer's assistant among the assistant army– all too damn eager to wipe his shoes and flick an imaginary speck of dust off his shoulders.

Good things happen in the mornings, he celebrates. He's gonna be a fucking morning bird for life.

******

"So what do you think you'll do after tomorrow?" Anita asks him, once they're picking up vegetables and the like from the grocery. John is quite drowsy this evening; he blames it on waking up too early and presently he mutters an incoherent response while toppling an entire rack of Nutella into the cart.

Anita tsks and laboriously retrieves them, save for one and makes it a point to grab coffee for John too, since he seems out of it tonight.

John groans a groan that sounds like a donkey's bray. He's definitely rethinking the morning-bird-for-life resolution.

"...ouse," Anita hears from his mouth before she catches him from collapsing over the arranged pile of mops. "Mouse?"

"I'd go looking for a house maybe..." John replies, droning and making Anita worry.

"Alright, but why? If I ask..."

"What do people do with houses? Live in it and that’s the common sense behind why I want one," John says before adding, "I think it’s time I stopped being the third wheel, mixing fettuccine with spaghetti and fighting with Brian about it."

"John," Anita says putting a hand over his shoulder, "We're still here if you need anything-"

"That's what I don't want," he snaps and then apologises once he catches the hurt look on Anita's features.

"It's exhausting really-I don’t wanna talk about it. Let’s just go home," John exhales, taking a step towards the counter and Anita cannot really fathom why he'd be acting like this all of a sudden, beaten up on the inside still pigsty on the surface, pale and shagged.

"You need better friends, I'm washing my hands off you," Anita jokes once they're loading the bags into the car.

"Did you just degrade yourself?" John jokes and Anita playfully punches him as they fall into cheerful laughter. It has been a long time since John had last smiled, so spent out in his stressful thoughts.

Anita pats his head as John leans on the window. Before his eyes closed for sleep, Anita starts the car.

He does look sharp and snarky but he's quite a bunny, Anita thinks. He's tired, therefore Anita decides to drive slowly so that he can sleep longer on the way back to Brian's apartment in which the three lived.

When a discordant sound burst in the silent car, Anita grimaces, pulling over. John springs up and fumbles for his phone.

"What is it, idiot," he says, instantly picking it up, knowing who was calling because the crazy frog ringtone is set only for Freddie.

"Hey Deaky, do you have any idea where the book I threw on your head would be by now?" His words echo through the car for Anita to hear as well.

'You threw the fucking book you should know," John says but regrets his snap once Fred lets out a worried 'oh' right after and changes to be reassuring, "I think I have it on my desk, what about it?"

"Thank god and uh it was the one which uh - look it was the one with Jim's latest project and it's a really big deal to him ‘cause he was supposed to turn in person to the king today I'm screwed I can't fuck up we've been together for a day you've got to help me.”

"I'm not going to, who even wants to visit the Neoarian Palace at this time?" John replies into the phone, calm from his exhaustion or maybe he’s quite used to being completely different from Freddie in the approach to calamitous situations as these. “I’m sure all the visiting tickets will be refused and do you even know how long they take for security checkups? I could watch three cosmos documentaries at that time."

"Look I don’t want you to go just hand the damn book to me and I’ll give it to the King."

"Where’s Jim?"

"He’s sleeping and the gates close around eight..."

"And Jim’s sleeping. How unlike him..." by this Fred knew John was being a condescending prick and he probably should let him be, cursing the fact that John knew him too well to know something more than Jim "Punctuality" Hutton hadn’t submitted a project. And they were talking about the top of the monarchy triangle here.

"Okay, I may have gotten him a little bit drunk today so he’s passed out and just get the book and hand it to me, alright? Kindly do what I say, I'll bake you whatever you want, please."

"But you said the deadline is eight it’s seven fifteen and the palace is an hour’s drive from your place you’re never gonna get there in time unless you have a helicopter which you don’t so why–"

"I’ll manage just get it to me."

"Alright alright. I’ll call you."

"I don’t want you to call me just get the damn book."

By now Anita’s driven them before the apartment complexes and John rushes inside with her, fetches the book and checks for signs of damage (not like he could get them fixed but he checks because he’s a careful person just like that) and then turns to Anita who is already frowning, "He is an idiot isn’t he?"

"Of course. But we’re best friends."

"And you’re tired. John."

"I’m okay, I’m okay," he says and rubs his eyes. Exhaustion grapples his shoulders and the back of his highs are already giving in to the rest of his weight. He had spent a rigorous time packing stuff up to leave and his books are a handful on their own.

He lives quite close to the royal residential block which had a nonsensical posh name he doesn’t remember anymore and was a place which was big enough to be called a city on its own. John saw no point in returning the book to Fred when he could turn it in himself.

Soon, after a few traffic lights turning green to his advantage, John’s arriving at the luxurious part of the city, he passes the lush green lawns and drives his beaten up orange car through the streets paved with gold bricks or something.

The gates are open, and even though the security is strict, he doesn't worry because his task is pretty easy. Neither do parking spots seem an issue, there are only a few tourists besides him and within a few minutes, he’s shaken awake from his prior drowsiness by the bright gallery lighting that adorns the entrance of the palace.

Staff...staff...where the hell? There should be a help desk where does he go?

He manages to pull off his multilingual skills in getting a few tourists to tell him the directions to a common help desk. John shuts his eyes in sheer dramatic fashion.

Please have more than just audio guides and promotional pamphlets to offer, just please, he needs sleep.

There’s a floor to the ceiling glass wall, which is an anomaly in the entire building which was itself constructed as a skeleton of bricks but with an encasement of glass. John supposes that’s where he should be; following the instructions from earlier.

He takes a step. The Neoarian palace lights up into life as the glasses glow in polychrome. John chokes in awe.

This lit shit is techno.

"Woah," he says in not so silent astonishment, John sees multiple beams of lights scanning him down quite like a light show before they let him pass through, leading him to a doorway at the other end of which stands a tall, beautiful and admittedly quite a receptionist with a severe case of an RBF.

John’s eyes were involuntarily narrow as he places his hands on the counter once his sleep-deprived head is making his ears siren. The receptionist is definitely judging him, eyeing his attire and demeanour more than once and showing a visible grimace in repulsion.

"I need to see the King. It is urgent," he says and her eyes widen, she’s probably not used to people expressing demands so unusual as these in an informal language before her.

"Excuse me?"

"The King? K-I-N-G? I've got a blueprint that he’d asked today? And I’d like to leave it here if he could pick it up."

The receptionist, 'Susan' as the name tag says, basically sasses him while she checks the book thoroughly for who knows what. John rolls his eyes, "Can I leave now?"

"What is your name?"

"John Deacon but I came here to give this book in place of Jim Hutton," on looking at the flabbergasted expression she made, he voiced out in incredulity, "Hey he works here you should know that!"

Miss Susan, he supposes, didn’t like to be told in the face that she’d straight out forgotten employees’ names. Must have a tough place on the royal roster, he muses as she taps a few buttons and moves around to fetch her smartphone elegantly.

"Let me send him a message," she says coldly and John could sit on the floor, knees burdened and giving into fatigue. He wonders what sort of adult he is when can’t survive awake till 9 and still gets up late. Susan keeps swiping on her phone and then turns forward with a glare that would put Emily Blunt to shame.

"His highness wants you to hand it to him. He doesn’t like getting things on a platter so off you go."

John cringes. He’s asking to meet a complete stranger? Just like that? The King must be complete bollocks if he just agreed to.

With the way Susan has one hand planted on her hip and an infuriated aura making the air suffocatingly dense, John might as well be done with this fast enough and get away. The view of the overpriced houses is pretty distracting from the glass walls.

Nevertheless, the more polite and eloquent part of his brain shuts down when the caffeine from earlier isn’t enough to support it. He slams the book on the counter making Susan touch her sleeve.

"Am I getting escorted? And why don’t you go hand it to him I need to get home before the gates close for good and I spend my night in my car, I don’t freaking know this place okay?"

Susan sighs, arrogantly as she tells him, "Most of our faculty has gone with the King's sisters so my work is to stay nailed to where I am. We’re understaffed, sorry to say."

"Okay...where do I go?" He asks helplessly, though not expecting much that would help him.

Susan suffices his expectations once she opens her mouth to reply with a "Directions are confidential, I can’t tell you."

"Oh for fuck's sake-"

"You’ll find your way. This is the royal palace please mind your language."

No he won’t mind it, he wished to bite back but the moment he sees a hallway with a thousand identical doors John knows he’s in for shit.

******

The King, he guesses looks every bit like an important person, he’s quite a revolutionary monarch as what papers speak from the dedicated columns they reserve for him on every page. He is a king, not without people who dislike him albeit a public favourite. John keeps no opinion of him, people who could live off with much less than they have are of little concern, he reasons.

So to say, he isn’t exactly thrilled he’s getting to meet the king. Sure, people dream of getting into the palace. But it’s really a normal building, quite like a Rubix cube made of glass. John thinks Jim could design something much better– so it’s great that he’s getting the attention he deserves for his work. John understands how much the diagrams bound in his hand are worth.

After a third walk touching the four corners of the cube on the first floor, which was not open to the public, John catches the sight of the night lit city, stricken conscious that he needs to get home or else Anita and Brian would worry.

Why is this place see-through again? He asks himself only to be standing before a door that led to the centre.

He pushes it, breath held to anticipate the element of surprise and he is very fascinated at the fact that in there is another world in there, stairs openly connecting the floors, mirrors before shelves of books illusion space and the complex is a pleasant contrast from the outside monochrome because it looks vintage and fit for a king.

John walks around, it’s pretty dark, save for a few dim lights placed in the centre of the perfect square walls. Portraits of rulers on either side of the lights eye him inquisitively as he staggers from wall to wall.

John doesn’t bother paying heed to the paintings. His objective is to get some sleep before he can grill Freddie the next day and for all of that, he needs to find the king.

John’s steps falter once he notices a man coming out from behind one of the shelves, holding a picture book that most certainly bears the image of Peppa the pig and John chokes himself while trying to contain his laughter because it’s the King before him.

In PJs and holding a children’s book– he repeats in his head. Completely contradictory to what his royal blue suits guarded with gold had shown him to be.

And that valedictorian image just flew out of the window to John the moment he sees him, blond hair tossed, blue striped pyjamas a la mister meddle and who the fuck wears Santa hats with a jingle on the end?

The King stares back, his cheeks colour in embarrassment, it’s not like he’s good at hiding it; he’s also a commercial icon often praised for his pale skin.

"Uh..." the King drones and John straightens, the book almost flying out from his arms.

Even in the shitty lighting of the Victorian room, where the friezes disappeared into the dark ceiling, he could see that the picture of the king in striped pyjamas and a noddy hat with a children’s book is downright ridiculous.

But okay, PJs are now hot. Totally.

Maybe he never knew things out of television looked this good until the King dressed up like this happened. Since the designer interviewing him, he’s never met another celebrity up close, and even if he would, they’d have nothing on the King's visuals.

"The book, your highness," John says, arm protruding like a bad keyed toy mechanism reflex.

That ’s it. Perfectly smile, shoulders straight. That ’s what mum said when you visit the dentist or the king.

King Roger looks to the book and then to the visitor. He’d been wondering why Jim hadn’t informed him earlier that someone else was leaving the prints and guessing he might’ve just been joking, he had let the visitor in, thinking it would be Jim.

The boy before him bites his lips before his mouth bursts into an enormous smile. The book hangs in between them, oddly the king is jittery for the first time. Something he’s never felt before even while addressing masses.

And here he is, too nervous to take a simple book without his fingers shaking.

"How do you know Jim? if I may ask," The King inquires, taking the book nattily and walking away from John. John remains standing where he is, letting the King continue to patronize him since he's refusing to face him.

At least he could acknowledge him and stop being a bratty arrogant kid, John is quick to judge once the King doesn’t bother to look even show that he's listening while John explains how he knows Jim.

He is so Miranda Priestly; what a waste of God’s good looks.

"May I leave?" John pipes up to the most important question.

"Where did your honorifics go, you must address me properly."

"You’re not speaking to me properly either,” John bites back and the King looks amazed. “You can’t just wander off while somebody’s speaking to you and well, I don’t see you addressing me with respect sire."

John take no bullshit from men in jingle hats.

"I am King," the King flares at him, nostrils bloated out and fiery rage emanating from his eyes.

"Are you going to use that as an excuse now?"

Within two minutes of meeting the King, John doesn’t realise how he could be exiled for sassing the King and frankly he believes that in his defence– he’s right.

John is always right.

The king fumbles over words and then hyper verbally erupts, explaining without much context as to how that isn’t an excuse but is relevant. And John couldn’t care less. Both seem to be equally feisty but his eyes are closing from the tiredness.

John’s eyelids are on the brink of closing to shut out King Roger’s nonsensical ramble when he spots a red blink of light flash between them.

Panicking, he leaps on him, knocking him to the ground. "Get down!"

The next few barely perceptual things escalate in seconds. The sound of glasses breaking, the wall to the east end throwing bricks at them from amidst an inferno which blazed like an enormous red flower.

A brutal attack and John quickly rises to his feet, pulling the king with him to escape, coughing out dry air and moving rapidly to force away from the slashes of heat on his face.

He's dragging him, handheld firmly and he doesn’t know how he could be saving this guy when it’s probably the latter who’s more likely to save them but he follows him in silence as John finds one room which actually has proper walls, the library. He puts a hand over the king’s mouth holding him tight like a kidnapper until he hears footsteps. The king flails, jingling that hat and John throws it on a nearby couch. “Those are my bodyguards let me go!”

Still pressing the King to the wall protectively, John says through gritted teeth hoping he’d just shut up while John tried to get them out to safety. “How could you be so sure they’re your bodyguards dammit!”

The king turns them around his hands secure on John’s elbows as he traps him against the wall, the pitter-patter of footsteps sounding evident against the sound of flaming fire consuming everything, leaving John shuddering from the close proximity as the king hovers over him, too hot for comfort. "How do I know you’re not a shooter either?"

"Really now? I jumped in front of bullets to save you and you’re being a complete thankless idiot! Are all you royalty like this and– leave my arms!"

Roger hadn’t thanked John for jumping in and saving his life but he does think himself worthy of some thanks from John because the next second the room beside theirs blasts in a blazing fire and he luckily has him in his arms, convulsing pale and rolled him away from the floor just in time. Those weren’t footsteps, that was the stumbling of grenades. There is no common exit, he can hear sirens and the heat is making him lose focus.

John is shivering and frightened and Roger feels responsible for all of this even though he could very well argue that it was John’s fault he came at this odd hour to deliver a book and lost his way around. Roger holds him tighter, "They know how we're moving," but before he could think of anything, the room south to theirs blows up.

"Run you, idiot," John mumbles before his features strain and he falls limp in Roger’s arms. Roger feels for John’s torso to get him to stand but when he looks at his palm that had just touched John, he’s shocked because it is bloodred.

He got shot because of him.

"Hang in there!"

John’s blood comes out in geysers making Roger grip the wound with his palm, trying to stop the bleeding. There was a clock ticking inside his head, he didn’t know what it was for. But fortunately, he knew his own secret passages, constructed solely for moments like these.

“I’m not letting you go,” he says and gets down towards a sliding door, the thin railed staircase has a deep drop, but Roger jumps four or five once he feels John panting in his arms, desperate to get some air and showing all signs of lifelessness. You need to stay with me, Roger thinks, adrenaline almost pushing him fast enough to find himself in the back of the premises bordered with dense trees and he can’t run or else they’d shoot him but he can’t delay either because John is becoming paler by the second, breathing loudly and Roger fears it might stop at some point. In John’s pocket, the phone vibrates and Roger picks up, hurriedly.

“ John! Are you alright?"

"This is the king," Roger breathes, "John is injured–bleeding and I need someone to fetch us from the Neoarian 4rth gate...to the hospital."

******

“I’m sorry it was my fault I’ve been a terrible mother, I never should’ve asked you to–” Freddie stops speaking and weeps next to John almost wetting his hospital gown.

“Shut it, Fred. You got me to the hospital and if we start with ‘never should’ve’s its all gonna round off to my mum should’ve never given birth to me and then any of this wouldn’t have happened. I’m glad you didn’t get shot in my place, had you gone.”

He’s glad Freddie and Jim are here in his shabby hospital room, the post-operative trauma was probably working wonders in one way; that being making him forget about the fact that he almost died saving the king of his country. He doesn’t want anyone coming in and telling him how he’s so lucky to have survived and how sorry they are. It wasn’t anything big now that John has a nice load of stitches running over his skin and a wound from a blow on the head. He does remember something about the King rescuing him or something but it’s all a hazy blur.

Jim shuffles his feet beside Freddie. And before he can apologise, John silences him too. “Jim, it’s okay. I’m the dumb one here. But it’s all good, neither of you is hurt.”

The door opens and surprisingly, Susan from the palace enters, a part of her is burnt at the ends, and she looks equally tired. Seeing her gives John the relief that not many people would’ve gotten injured from the blasts. Susan walks over to his side-table, making a little space and is nice enough to leave a flower in a porcelain vase but isn’t nice enough to say hi to his other two friends.

“All of you are leaving flowers left and right as if I’m dying,” John jokes but Susan keeps her stone face intact, “Those aren’t from me, they’re from the king.”

Freddie and Jim raise to their feet, “He’s here?” They sound shocked but John doesn’t want himself to react in any way, he understands his need for rest although he can’t deny he does feel weird, the flowers from the king are weird. They look like ugly poison flowers.

Susan looks down on the other two, her heels giving her the supplement of height, “Yes he is and he’s waiting for you two to leave–”

“We're out- bye Deaky!!”

And John sighs, regretting his decision of being friends with Freddie Mercury in the first place. He closes his eyes tight, applying as much pressure to his cornea as he could to rid his head of that piercing headache. He doesn’t hear the door open and shut, too focused on getting himself to relax after.

“I’m sorry,” he hears a voice say, John doesn’t open his eyes, thinking this was probably the end for him. He got slices on the stomach by a propelling shard of glass so of course, he must’ve died by now, no question.

“God?”

“You can say that but in this world, they call me Roger the immaculate.”

John lets his eyelids fly open, there’s a glare already shaping itself but Roger is smiling from over him, holding even more flowers.

“Goodness, I haven't died. Throw them,” John says and Roger doesn’t throw the flowers, proceeding to sit on John’s hospital bed, his fingers drawing circles on John’s leg under the covers. John never really realised when kings became so casual with commoners, Roger is clothed comfortably in a black jacket over a Led Zeppelin T-Shirt and his mouth is curved into a sad, yet relieved smile. He also wonders when had he become so comfortable, words and the small talk seemed to be urging to be forced out when with him.

“Are you hurt?” John asks, concerned. Roger looks up to face John, but his hand keeps playing with the covers, wandering inches from John’s free hand, bandaged over a minor cut.

“No, I’m not. Except for a few scratches here and there,” Roger says, his voice bringing a fuzzy feeling to John’s chest, making him melt back into the mattress behind his back.

“I don’t know how to thank you. If there was anything–” Roger starts and a buzzer goes off in John’s head. No, he didn’t just say that.

“Look, mate, I didn’t save your life because you are the king, I did it because you were the only person on that floor. Are you that same bratty prince who didn’t come to visit his mum when she was dying? And you’re here to give me an apology for what happened, by a lame medal of honour or something- I don’t want it,” John says spitefully, quite overwhelmed by how a person he almost took a bullet for is merely treating it as a light thing John was meant to do because he was a subject.

It ticks him off.

“John,” the King says and for a second he feels all his anger could disappear into thin air because of his voice if he continues, “Are you mad at me?”

John mocks a laugh, “Now this sounds too normal, are you really the king? Shit, you’re asking me if I’m mad at you? I had a fucking glass cut through my abdomen because I was saving your royal arse!”

Roger steers himself up, imperiously, and goes straight to what his officers might have told him to say in order to keep it on the safe side of the media for interacting with a complete stranger, “Is there anything-”

“I just wanted a job and now I'm stuck in the hospital with nowhere to live and nothing to live for and I might just fake depression and live here forever and make you pay for it I am so mad. Do you see how mad I am at you? How do you royal people sleep at night thinking of all the innocent lives that have been gone because you guys are too high and important–"

“You can say the same to every political figure too, are you really going to take your anger out his way? I’m trying to come up with compensation–”

“Then just go away,” John says, “I saved your life, your highness. You needn’t repay me although you feel obligated to.”

Roger walks to the door and turns back with glassy eyes, “You should think who got you out of a flaming building, equally risking his life, tied your bleeding self and got you a ride to the hospital; before you assume things.”

Heart laden with guilt, John watches the door slam, but Roger's words and the sound of the door hitting its place kept echoing in his head for as long as he was in the hospital. 


	2. Part 2

Once John is fine enough to get his freedom from shitty hospital food, he’s welcomed by the group with a celebration that’s so flashy it outshines Christmas. They find him a two-room apartment and even decorate the interior and everything for him. John gets emotional at the touching pictures hanging on the rows of threads, Brian cries. In John’s room, there is interesting vinyl art by none other than Freddie. Jim helped fix the furniture while Anita and Brian chose the place. Veronica couldn’t make it, she lives miles away anyways, no one blames her for that.

Freddie stacked a lot of books in another room with ample amount of beanbags and lights besides coffee tables ‘for John’ as he said, but it really looked like he was planning to crash here whenever he could. John didn’t mind.

The king somehow had paved a way to his life but he was quite insistent on getting in. John constantly deletes his messages, whenever he can without reading a letter. It’s a favourite thing to do in leisure. The contact has a picture of Casper which is ridiculous, (and also creepy because when did he do that?) but he doesn’t opine on the king’s taste for cartoons.

A week in and John notices the message he’d received from Veronica what seems ages ago, on the day of the accident.

  
'I’m thinking of letting the house go, the roof just fell off, you know that costs a fortune to repair. And there’s a ton of undiscovered rooms yet to fix. I don’t think I can do this. It’s best the royal authorities take care of that.'

Albion may be miles away and his abdomen may pain a bit still, but John packs up his things to leave for the next day.

This shouldn’t be happening.

The crosstown buses are not a suitable choice for John, the road is bumpy and hence neither is a car. They’d all induce too much nausea. John jumps the train, looking over the hills laden with forests hanging while travelling to his pastoral destination.

The last year in college was when Veronica, Brian and John decided to renovate a rather ancient house that called to them when they were strolling when lost on a trip. Surprisingly cheap, it also happened to be a heritage site, not yet under the light but then they desperately wanted the experience of putting an effort to bring it back and so they started fixing it.

Apparently, Veronica’s last text showed that she wanted to give up on their four-year-long project just like that.

First, it’s Brian, and now her.

John is attached to the house, he’s spent time and money on it, raised it like he would a child. It is the driving force behind why he needed a job and he cannot let wisteria and weeds engulf it and make it no less than the bushes on the roadside.

More so, his recent incidents with the hashtag ‘royal’ haven’t been the best, he’s most certainly against the idea of letting the house go to those who didn’t even care about it in the first place.

Quite a needle through the thimble.

“Hey Ronnie,” John says when he finds her hunched over a carpenter’s desk, still sweating from the insufferable humidity of the place.

“Hi,” Veronica says quietly, getting up to give him a hug, making him flinch because the wound is still there. “You look good,” she says to which John replies sharply, “I always look good.”

Veronica laughs but it’s apologetic. John feels the walls of the place crumble away in the sorrow of potential abandonment.

“Since you’re handing all the work to me–I’ll just take a tour myself,” John says, the words coming out colder than expected.

Veronica gives him a weak smile, reaching over to pat his head, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m sorry this house is why you’re delaying your engagement,” John says, smiling up as she blushes.

She offers to walk him up the hilly terrain; she stacks their bags with building materials, knives and rods of all sorts. John stays in Albion for the latter half of the year, working against the cold chilly wind while Ronnie stays for the earlier half. The work had been getting too hectic, with the weather always humid in the countryside. Frequently dismantling the wooden frameworks were also the cold evening winds.

“You sure you’ll be alright? I haven’t fixed the front porch and the garden, so there’ll be an ivy hitting your face every two seconds,” She tells John once they reach.

John gives a nod before leaving him to wander around the parts of the house which still needed amends.

If he was a six-year-old kid, he’d probably run yards away with a presumptive fear that the house was haunted but it’s become a hobby for him. John keeps clicking pictures here and there; he’d get to Veronica’s place and thoroughly inspect them on her laptop.

Afternoon birds chirp as John continues ravishing the house, meticulous clicks ringing and making resting bats fly out from the darker spots. Veronica is gardening, John realises that he’s going to have trouble with that on his own since he’s not good with plants.

After a click to a beehive buzzing on one the decaying walls, John looks down to see how the pictures turned out. He catches a glimpse of a blue cape from the corner of his eye.

For the first time, although he isn’t six, he still feels like running yards away, consumed by fright.

He remembers Veronica wearing a black dress and she most certainly had a belt like always to have her dress from flying out, nothing blue.

John looks around, and cautiously begins retracing his steps, most of the place is dripping, with a veil of moss over stones, he’s got to be careful before he slips–

He slips and falls into a small pit, right when he undeniably sights the blue cape again, scared out of his wits.

“I thought my luck was bad,” John says out loud in annoyance. His voice reverbs in the slippery pit.

“I think you’re straight-up cursed,” he hears a familiar voice say.

John waits for the king's face to peek from above if it is the king and not some medieval ghost who happens to have the same sexy voice.

John slaps himself. I did not just admit that King Roger's voice is–oh it is him, never mind, whatever.

Roger peeps into the pit and John is huffing, warm air filtering out through his nostrils.

The king remarks, “Oh hello there! Fancy seeing you in a pit!”

John tries not to remember how much he owes the king for saving his life and doing a lot of heroic shit that had all flooded back into his memory a few days after the accident. It wasn’t like him to apologise, besides if he did call him and apologise he would be pretty sure the king’s advisors would get him convicted for being inappreciative to him besides the obvious treasonable offence of spitting insults at him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” John says, eyeing Roger and he does have a blue cloth tied around his neck good lord it wasn’t a ghost.

The king flips his hair and John tries not to laugh. He explains, “I came for a visit to my villa–”

“This is a cottage.”

“–cottage and also because...”

“You wanted to show off your new superman suit?”

“It’s a pleasure you noticed I’m wearing a cape. And superman’s cape is red, not blue. I did not wear it for the likes of you to see.”

“It’s not like I care to be honest. I’m stuck here because of you, now help me up.”

Roger sits down, legs folded, and then gives John his smile of mockery, “I’m actually thinking of conducting an experiment here.”

“Not interested in the least, your highness,” John says, trying to push himself up with the help of some stones on the floor of the pit. It isn’t that deep, he needs one big push and a hand that’ll be all. Unfortunately, the biggest and most efficiently sized stone is right under where Roger is sitting so that’s the last stone he’s been getting on.

“I’m thinking...how many insults you can actually come up with before I put a lid on this pit.”

“I haven’t even insulted you yet! And get me out you twat!”

Roger pushes up his index finger for John to see, the smug look never leaving his face, “One insult down–”

“You are terrible,” John says and steps on the stone to pull himself upwards, he realises he can’t really reach and is expecting a fall once the mud underneath his fingers disintegrates but Roger places a hand on his arms steadying John and hoisting him towards himself.

So close.

“I won’t let you slip,” Roger whispers against his lips and for once John trusts this man enough to let him pull him to the top.

John’s heartbeat drops, only to come back as a thundering sound, heightening his senses as he realises that his fingers are digging into the king’s thighs, he notices how afternoon heat makes Roger’s cheeks rosy. Their eyes are locked, unable to look away, Roger looks through his soul and John almost wants to ask him what he is staring so much at. He looks away once he finds himself staring at the king’s lips.

“Thank you, your highness,” he mutters hastily and speeds away, he feels he wasn’t acting like himself.

******

Veronica works though the evenings and assures John that she’d be fine on her own, finishing a few things and then he’d call him to take over the place. John sadly smiled and shook her hand.

“Did you meet the king?” Ronnie asks with a reticent glint in her eyes.

“Trust me, I’m actually thinking that the king is a walking bad luck zone.”

Cinematic music is John’s favourite thing to listen to when walking down Albion, the trees and damp grass always provides him with a picturesque scene to watch along. So when a car gives an unattractive honk from behind him, he finds his peace disturbed tremendously, shaken like a when Anita knocked him out once.

John ignores, tearing up the volume on his iPod and walking faster, but the honker in insistent, the honks go from once to twice to one whole continuous blare.

John turns back to shout, “I'm not even in your way why can't you fucking drive?”

Out of the blue, it’s the king’s Mercedes.

Bet he’s got a posh name for it like Louis or Paulo.

John cringes in the absurdity that is a king alone in the countryside and no security, completely ignoring that he’s wearing sunglasses in the rainy weather but that’s passed off because he has absolutely no dressing sense. Before he can think of creative ways to dispose of his body, the king interrupts, “I need you to drive me to my palace.” Even if it is a polite request the amount of suave he puts in when he says ‘my palace’ is like a spear to John’s eardrum.

John bites his lips and forces himself to look down, a car seemed much more comfortable that the brick-hard seats of the train, so he agrees.

The sunglasses hide how Roger’s eyes light up and another thing that John doesn't notice is that strange look of determination alighting.

_I said I won't let you slip away._

******

“I’m Roger,” the king says, enthusiastically placing a hand for John to shake before him. John looks bummed, quizzically alternating narrow stares to the king and then to his hand and how ridiculous everything was because they’ve fairly known each other, introductions we’re practically useless unless...

John gapes at the king’s smiley face.

Unless he was trying to make an acquaintance, but why would he want to associate himself with him?

“I already know that,” John says, proceeding to shake his hand and retracting it away after it burned- a good kind of burn which made him feel warm and fuzzy inside. “John Deacon.”

Roger, (John felt much more comfortable addressing him as Roger in his head) giggled a bit at that, making John almost run over a wandering goat crossing the road.

“You know John...there is a debutante ball and I’d like you to go with me.”

Is his head alright?

“No chance.”

“Well then, it’s your loss,” Roger laughs and John curses inside yet again.

If I take my attention off the road, I'll probably end up in the hospital or jail and I don't want to. Not for this brat of a king. Not for his sickeningly beautiful laugh.

“Hey...but your friends call you Deaky,” Roger comments and John wants to hit his head against the steering wheel since he can’t contain the urge to jump him if he continues with that low toned voice that makes him feel like it’s running over his skin.

“They do, when they’re making fun of me,” John says, “Could you be quiet I’m trying not to kill us both here.”

Roger, who had expected a more heartfelt conversation, spent the rest of the ride looking out the window and staring at how the pink sky became black from the medium of purple and then blotted with stars. John tried not to think too much into it, the king, no matter how accomplished– he could excuse him for being sad for being told off once in his life and oddly...

John does admit, after stealing two glances just to have the image of Roger sleeping with sunglasses dangling down his sideburns, imprinted in his memory; that he does find Roger adorable.

The guards look very suspicious once John drives Roger’s car past them, but they don’t stop them because it most certainly is Roger’s car, with the fancy crests n all. “Hey. Wake up.”

Roger doesn’t just wake up, he jumps up. Jumps up so bad that he hits his head from the glass. John laughs and almost opens the door for him to get out. Roger immediately gestures him not to.

“Thank you,” Roger says, taking his time to smile at John, he feels unrealistically energized after a long car ride.

John smiles back making Roger’s breath hitch, it’s the first time they seem convivial, it’s the first time Roger has seen John smiling honestly and naturally– it’s nothing like the sarcastic smirks or the big forced one.

Roger likes it.

Streetlights from above them, created like vintage lamps tint the ground yellow and Roger shifts from foot to foot, unable to meet John’s eyes, shying away.

John looks back at him, suddenly, “May I leave, your highness?”

Roger should nod and let John go but then he just heard from Veronica that the cottage will be left to ruin and besides that, he doesn’t know when and where he’d find John.

“Come inside will you?” Roger invites him to the palace, hand resting on the grill. Soldiers on either side in the watch houses suspiciously look at them but really they are mushy over the scene.

“Oh no, too much happened in there the last time, I’ll leave you to face the danger yourself,” John says, almost wanting to punch himself for bad humour. The bombings had become a fast-fading blur; John doesn’t want to remember it.

“Very thoughtful,” Roger observes, leaving him like that time he’d moved to exit the hospital room.

For some reason, it stings.

John knows it would hurt like last time if he left the conversation hanging like this. He doesn’t understand why he feels as if he has a lot to say to Roger.

“You know I don’t mean that,” John confesses, making Roger turn around. “I’m sorry I–I know it must be hard to be in a place where you never know when your life’s in danger and I–I thought you deserved my rudeness and I still do but it’s not my place to judge–” John stops to see if Roger’s even listening to what he’s rambling since he looks stoned.

“You can probably execute me for being rude which I was–”

“I want to see you again,” Roger says, interrupting him and John completely loses his train of thought. He smiles, somehow being a king means that they’re inept at the act of asking, so used to demanding. He smiles as if he doesn’t care how much trouble John got him into, first saving his life and then to find him when Jim said he wasn’t at home and had left city earlier this morning.

John has no clue what Roger is smiling so contentedly for.

“Take a picture then,” John jokes but the king is deadly serious. Turning to walk away, John thinks that’ll be all but he hears Roger call for his chauffeur to drop John.

“I’m waiting,” Roger says imperiously.

John hides his face in his hands and asks him, thoroughly embarrassed as he gets inside the car.

“You really don’t take no for an answer do you?”

******

A black tux has always proved to be a major fail for John, it does nothing to bring out the green tint in his eyes and his hair looks even worse when coupled with the combination of a white shirt with a bowtie.

Jim comments he looks fine but Freddie is downright sweating because he thinks he’s somehow responsible to the king for dressing his date up. So far, none of the resources they’ve pulled is nearly good enough and Freddie gave up, going for a classic black tux in which John looked less weird than he did in the other suits.

Jim’s eyes gleam and Freddie sighs once they manage to get him properly dressed because the guy is really hopeless, he had precisely three suits–all for work.

It bothers Freddie, “Don’t tell me this is the first time you’re going to a ball, darling.”

John brushes threads off his shoulders nodding as he does so.

“What am I going to do with you?” Freddie wails and Jim rolls his eyes.


	3. Part 3

Very reluctant to let John go to the ball just because he wasn’t dressed to perfection, Freddie still had to. John kept sighing as he entered the palace, wondering why all the maids were whispering and giggling, running away like school girls when John turned an inquiring eye to them. Shifty. This time, he knew his way around, the palace was closed for tourists; on the occasion of the ball that John doesn’t even remember the name of.

If there was something like ‘Citizens have a duty to go to the ball with the king’ listed in his fundamental duties he would actually have not been so nervous right now.

John catches a glimpse of himself in the glass. Oh gosh, I look terrible.

His hair is standing too up, he’s probably having the third static hair day, the tux fits snugly but he’s lean so to him it looks like a poor drawing of a stick figure.

John sighs. Too late to run back now. But he’s already prepared his speech to Roger, knowing how things get when the two of them are left together, the palace burning down, John falling into the pit, friendly stupid conversations that make John’s heartbeat at astronomical rates that can only be explained as a would-be symptom of a heart condition...

Reciting his ‘I’m chickening out speech’, John keeps walking to the king’s chambers. “Your highness, number one, I can’t dance and you asked to come to the ball with you so once I reach there I will be free to find a corner for myself–”

“What?”

John turns to his right to Roger, who is leaning on the wall and he almost swears because one, Roger is undoubtedly infuriated, two, John very stupidly voiced out his thoughts loud at a wrong time.

And three, Roger looks amazing.

The king looks every bit of a king, his cufflinks shimmer in sync with the precious stones sitting on his fingers, Roger notices his hair is away, showing a high forehead and blond ringlets curling down gracefully and as if his perfect face wasn’t enough, the eyeliner was put to kill.

John stutters once Roger moves slowly towards him, biting his lips and his eyes raking up and down John’s frame and he’s never felt so conscious of himself until now. Not even when he was running around his block in mickey mouse boxers.

“What do you mean you will find a corner? This is a social event!” Roger says, flaming.

“Don’t be lava. If you take me I’m probably going to make you look bad,” John says honestly. Roger raises an eyebrow as if to ask why.

“Y’know you’re the king, who actually looks really good in old fashioned formals and I look like a hideous stalk ripped off the tree,” John explains and Roger bursts out laughing.

John turns purple and then blushes red. “See? I told you I look weird. You probably–”

“You are hilarious,” Roger says, looking at him with overflowing fondness, “You look perfect.”

John stares part appalled and partly amused, it’s Roger’s turn to blush.

“I mean, you look perfect for the ball. Definitely not a tree stalk, come on,” Roger corrects himself and spends a good twenty seconds looking eyeing some inarticulate thing beside him.

John zips his mouth and looks down, standing before the king gets more and more awkward each day. Roger grins, “You’re supposed to say thank you,” he ushers.

John rolls his eyes at his cheekiness, sticking out a middle finger making Roger laugh yet again as they descend the Victorian stairs before setting out for the hall.

******

** Chatroom **

**Freddie the great**

I bet they kissed

**Brain may the force be with you**

Probably grabbed each others y’know what

**Ani**

I second that

**DiQi**

Gross Brian get out you’re worse than Fred

**Jim**

Nah Freddie's worse

**DiQi**

Freddie if you don't marry him I'll marry him

**Freddie the great**

Back off dear. And for hygienic purposes please throw the empty packet of lube in the third dustbin I set up for you

**DiQi**

WHY DO YOU GUYS THINK I'M DATING THE KING WHEN I'M NOT!

**Ronnie**

We don't think you're dating the king, we just think you two are fucking

**DiQi**

Thanks. Very helpful.

**Freddie the great**

Ronnie replies once in 300 messages and she's still funnier than Deaky lololol

**Jim**

Now I see why John doesn't like you

**Freddie the great**

But you love me!

**Jim**

Okay

**Brian may the force be with you**

Is anyone else who's bored with Freddie's love life now that he's finally got a boyfriend after hooking up with a thousand people

**Ani**

Yeah, Fred, we're happy for you. Now shut the fuck up.

**Jim**

A...thousand?

**Freddie the great**

Thousand’s just a number dear!

  
**DiQi**

I wonder how I still have my brain intact and not corroded

**Freddie the great**

Look at you acting all high and haughty just cz the king asked you to the ball

**Brian may the force be with you**

Don't forget us when you wave from the balcony

**Ani**

Don't forget to repay us for all the takeouts we've gotten you

**Freddie the great**

Interest implied :>

**Casper**

I'll make sure he doesn't :)

**DiQi**

What did I tell you about emoticons? Use colourful things!

**Casper**

But Freddie used them! Why can't I? :(

**Brian may the force be with you**

Deaky who's Casper?

**DiQi**

I forgot to tell you guys, I added Roger

**Freddie the great**

Please tell me this is another Roger and not who I think it is

**Ani**

How is he just Roger to you huh?

**Casper**

Is there another Roger?

**DiQi**

This is the king guys. Say hello.

**Ani**

Goodbye

**Brian may the force be with you**

Oh my god

**Brian may the force be with you**

Did he see all my tweets about his abs?

**Jim**

It's extremely dumb to point that out when he's in the chat

**Casper**

Yes I did! It's nice to know my workout is appreciated

**Freddie the great**

I think the king is cool deaky get out we don't need you

**Freddie the great**

Your highness, might you do the honour of exiling John to a Polynesian island please

**Casper**

That's against the law

**DiQi**

BUUURRNN

**Ani**

I came back to say goodnight, your highness, an honour to have you in the chat room

**Casper**

You too :) If John doesn't know things then who will tell me what Brian was talking about grabbing each other's something? And why John's username is like that? :o

**DiQi**

Stop. Using. Emoticons. Roger.

******

If Roger would have asked John to ever add him to his chatroom, John would have blatantly declined because well, his friends emit harmful rays of idiocy that could induce an ox-killing migraine from metres. And that's exactly what John did when Roger asked, so in turn, Roger used his royal authority to force John.

Freddie barges into John's apartment and begins to berate in a thousand ways why he's obligated to tell him what happened at the ball– but he was dying to know especially of all things how the King ended up in their chatroom. He didn’t get how John was so buddy-buddy with him.

John gave up and began narrating. Freddie flicked on his recorder.

******

The first thing Roger did was to let John enter the car first. Everybody around them had stared.

"I'm not your date, Your Highness," John had muttered under his breath and Roger smiled one last time to the crowds waiting outside the boundaries before answering jovially, "I didn't hear that."

The second thing Roger did was to offer John his hand while they arrived at the hall, beautifully decorated and thankfully, also had its name lighted up before the entrance, lest he should feel the need to escape, Anita's number already on speed dial (if she hadn’t put it on silent to make out with Brain)

John eyed Roger's hand and looked at him as if to ask what do I do with it?

Roger had read his thoughts and had explained, "Hold my hand."

"But why?" John wondered out whining.

"It's traditional, don't embarrass me," Roger replied but John, hurt, retracted his frame, cowering away.

"I don't want to hold hands," he said and threw a resentful front. "And if you think I'm going to embarrass you, go alone." A bodyguard came closer alarmed at how John raised his voice.

Roger pinned him by the shoulder and apologised earnestly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

John hadn't even entered the hall and he had begun to feel out of place already. And he couldn't exactly be like this, he didn't have a book of posh etiquette for dummies. He looked at Roger, nervously, eyes beseeching.

The third thing Roger did was understand how John was feeling even if he hadn't said a word.

"We're not stepping into an iron maiden," he whispered soothingly. "You're going to be absolutely fine."

The fourth thing? Well just maybe the King decided it was alright to ditch tradition and escort dates inside with a hand around their waists and not holding hands like the olden times.

He felt refreshed, much less nauseated and an involuntary smile made its way to Roger as he was pulled close. "Better?"

John smiled letting his own hand graze over Roger's on his waist as he led them in.

The best feeling I've had so far.

The fifth thing had to be how Roger immediately found them a private place on the balcony upstairs and before John could yell at him for treating him as if he was an embarrassment, Roger shushed him.

"You didn't want to socialise right? We can stay here," Roger said, grinning from ear to ear.

Dumbfounded, John stutters, "B-But you–shouldn't you be there? People expect you to be attending the ball!"

"And I expect them to understand that my date is quite exclusive and I don't want anyone else to dance with him," Roger says cheekily, making John stare, astounded.

"So you are attracted to me, huh," John joked and it took a moment for the words to seep into Roger's head.

The balcony made the view of the city seem like an arch. The tips blocked out the moon, John cursed how he had to bend forward to see it, but what is Gothic architecture without arches.

Roger sat at one of white eggshell painted tables, the skyglow added a pastel light and there was the refreshing wind in his hair.

"I wanted to make a friend," Roger said to him, making John look back from the railing, "I'm only trying to be friends with you."

"You know that's impossible," John hisses, "You've got so much baggage...you have political responsibilities your highness, you can't afford to waste your time on me."

"I can afford to waste time on anything, I'm rich. What do you think we have prime ministers for?" Roger counters but John doesn't laugh. The glass doors behind him show buzzing people. He somehow wonders why Roger asked him out of all the noblemen out there when he's just an assistant designer out of a job.

"Is this your sick idea of Roman Holiday?" John says, irritatedly.

"I'm not following," Roger says, in disillusionment.

"I don't understand why you're asking me to be friends with you when-when look, you're famous and everything okay? People are not going to be happy that you're friends with a guy who doesn't even have a fancy keychain to put on his car keys."

Roger looked dismayed.

"I'm not asking you to be friends with my lifestyle, I'm asking you to be friends with me," Roger sought, making John's heart leap in anticipation as he walked closer.

"But all of that is a part of you," John argued, "You're always going to be King Roger."

Roger takes a deeps breath and his eyes boldly meet John's.

"I'm that guy who walks around during night to the library because I can't sleep without an optimistic bedtime story. I'm that guy who is still holding on to pieces of my childhood because I'm afraid of discovering new things, aspects of myself," Roger spoke, verbose and nothing like the king who could only come up with menial quarrel monologues.

"I may be a King, there may be a crown on my head but that doesn't make me special, that just gives me baggage, as you said. A baggage of politics, fame, wealth but never that one thing..."

John held his breath.

"...happiness, I've never really known what it's like. You, John, almost took a bullet for me and I may have thousands of bodyguards but none of them would do that. No one came to rescue me the day of the fire," Roger weakly smiles and John is left with no choice but to stare at how he's so much like a glassed portrait, falling apart revealing it's natural hue and texture to see.

"At the end, I'm just that guy who wants to know you. I've read how people give up their lives for things that I have, I've been shot before because somebody didn't want me to have the things I have but I just want to know you. Somehow I feel you don't expect me to be kingly, that's a first," Roger says dryly, coming close beside John and leaning on the same railing.

"Don't hold it against me that I'm someone who's trying to find happiness in another way," Roger confessed and John didn't have the pluck to turn away. His heart ached.

John reached out and squeezed his hand reassuringly. Roger's gaze detached from the scenery to their hands and then to him, "What was that for?"

"It's traditional," John replied and Roger smiled, it looked hopeful yet had a tinge of sadness.

That sadness disappeared once Roger looked fondly at their clasped palms, moving closer to intertwine their fingers.


	4. Part 4

  
"And gentlemen, that was the ball. For those who genuinely care about me and not my familiarity with the king, I finally learnt the samba," John says, grinning proudly after he finished his narration. Freddie clicks the recorder off. His face was quite unamused.

"What is it, Fred?" John asks, worried.

Freddie turns back and gives him a presumptuous glare. "Nothing. I just realised that you don't see that the king likes you."

"Well I like him as well, he's not half bad of a friend," John says but Freddie frowns.

"That's not what I meant John–never mind,” Freddie shakes it off.

John looks blankly into his book. That's not what I meant either.

Fred snickers for no reason as he shuts John's bedroom door, pointing to the Tupperware box full he'd brought for him earlier, "I'm gonna go distribute cookies, tell me if I baked them right."

"Will do," John says, letting his body sprawled on his chair. Freddie tsks as he runs down the stairs on a one-man stampede.

Outside, it begins to rain once he arrives at the ground floor and Freddie curses his inability to remember to have brought an umbrella.

He suddenly sees Jim's car arriving beside the pavement, immediately making him smile.

"Are you even going to get in? The food might suffer y'know," Jim shouts and Freddie doesn't mind getting drenched if he gets to see Jim smile like that from this angle.

"Have I told you I love you?" Freddie asks and Jim pulls his jacket off once he enters the car.

"Too many times," Jim replies and Freddie turns his face by the chin to press their lips together.

"Once more wouldn't hurt."

******

  
"This is HELL," Roger groans, trying to drag his feet up the cursed hill which he thinks should be under scientific inspection since it seems to have a higher gravity pull. His feet have never felt heavier.

"No, your highness this is a hill," John comments from where he is already ahead of him. Roger's attuned to the fact that John likes to call him highness as mockery.

"How do you even get up here?" Roger asks running using up the last visage of energy and loosely falling on John's back. He doesn't think he can go further.

"Walking, you should try that sometimes," John says and steers ahead, leaving Roger alone yet again. "Should've brought a car," he grumbles.

"Says the man who wanted to have a complete aesthetic experience...we're here!"

John runs excitedly through a gate hanging loosely by the hinge into what Roger sees as a near-derelict house, familiar since he's been here a few times already but those visits were only compulsory since he had to put a seal of approval on the projects they were wishing to fund. The house was so ruined, Roger didn't want anything to do with it.

But now, now he sees John's dedication. He can see it in the way John shakes the backpack of his shoulders, calls up some workers and how he wholeheartedly has done enough for the house. He doesn't miss how John's eyes are resplendent at the sight of the house.

It just needs additions in a few places, otherwise, it's good, he deduces.

He doesn't notice when John walks towards him, orange sun-kissed hair falling over his forehead, "I'm going to go inside. There's a sandpit over there if you wanna play," he tells him.

"Really now, sandpit? You make me a child John," he imputes.

"In my defence, you are a child. You'll get bored," John says.

I could just watch you work, Roger wants to say but he figures it would sound inappropriate even though that's what he'd be completely okay with doing the whole day. But he can't pass for a useful man without doing anything.

"Let me help you," Roger offers. "I could put that horticulture degree to some use, there's a lot of plants here..."

"Oh thank goodness! I hate plants!" John yells in glee. Roger's mouth falls agape, "You hate plants?"

"I mean I hate gardening but enough talking I'll get you Ronnie's toolbox you are a lifesaver," John rambles and runs to fetch it.

Roger's legs are in the worst condition and he isn’t really looking forward to pulling out unwanted shrubs but he figures it’s part of making progress.

He's enjoying something new. He doesn't hate it as much as he hates being told what to do in the palace.

John returns back with a huge box full of muddy instruments, a huge grin plastered on his face.

It's that smile that makes Roger think that agreeing to come with him was a good decision. He can't help but let it penetrate through his mind, it makes him feels lighter and happier.

"Do you like carrots or turnips?" John asks suddenly coming out after Roger put his sweat into ridding a tiny corner of the lawn bordered with useless plants for an hour or so.

"Are you going to make my porridge?" Roger enquires, sounding delighted with his own idea.

"No I want you to plant either of them," John says with a steel face.

"Bananas," Roger answers disinterestedly.

"But bananas can't be–oh wait you don't want to work I see. Lazy arse. Fine. Go chase some pigs, shoo," John says with both hands on his hips and a worker’s apparel now huddled over his frame. Roger shouldn't stare but he does because John seems to be unaware of it.

"Why would you go for growing vegetables anyway," Roger remarks, confused. "I'm pretty sure this part was initially made for planting flowers, not as a kitchen garden."

John remains silent for a while, he presses his lips in deep contemplation and thoughtfully runs over words in his head. "When I first came here to work on this falling house, I mean when Brian, Ronnie and I first came here, there were a couple of locals who really welcomed us and gave us an idea about the landscape and climate before we actually began. They always joked about how they always wanted a kitchen garden of their own someday,” John says and Roger cannot rip his eyes off him, utterly mesmerized.

“They were really supportive people. We even stayed at theirs for weeks straight and they were nice enough not to throw us out. They wished to see this house back to how it was in the old days..." and Roger notices how John's tone runs down into sadness.

"What happened to them?" He asks curiosity gaining control over his mouth.

"Avalanche," John says without a hint of emotion. Roger knows that's the worst kind of tone, so completely devastated on the inside that it strips you of feelings.

"I just think this is the right thing to do before I give it up to the royal authorities," he continues. "This little patch is for them, and then I guess this house will deteriorate to dust and debris."

"I don't think we would do that–"

"The house has been rejected so many times for funds from the government–you precisely, I don't think anyone's willing to get it repaired and I don't have a job to finance this."

"But you've worked so hard–"

"It's life, really," John says, laughing without mirth, "You put your heart and soul into it but you have to let it go."

It tears Roger apart to see John so crestfallen but then there's the clear-cut fact if John has moved to a state of acceptance, there's not anything Roger can do for him. No matter how much he wants to.

"I'll be finished in a few hours, it's not like you have to help me," John tells and Roger's fist clenches and unclenches, wishing desperately that he'd know how much he's going crazy with the need for his company.

"And you should've brought a car, to be honest, you can't take the train home and my car is a disgrace in the vehicle world to you," John says, his lips curving upwards. Roger is quite confused, "What are you going to do then?"

"I...have an engagement party to attend to," John answers.

"Can I come?" Roger asks and John's lips seal. "Why do you ask questions I have to say yes to? You misuse your royalty, your highness..."

"Can I come? As a friend at least," Roger still asks, persistent as fuck and indifferent to the sarcasm.

When John was narrating the ball episode to Freddie, he kept mentioning 'things' that may have seemed like paragraph separators but John was just noting the little 'things' Roger did.

The things Roger did that didn't just seem like normal acts of geniality. The things that made him feel like he was the centre of Roger's world. John didn't want to think excessively into what Roger’s eyes wanted to tell him, he didn't want to know because he was afraid he would be laying a foundation for expecting something he doesn't even know he wants.

Roger moves in a heartbeat, hugging John from behind and it's one of those things.

It's one of those things that make John feel like a dozen arrows of spontaneous affection hitting him.

"I really want to go," Roger requests, squeezing him a little and the happy hormones explode in his chest. It's that feeling, although he can't pinpoint it.

"You'll have to go in my car though."

"Anything for you."

******

John's friendship with the king is in some way a mass of potentialities. He doesn't know what Roger gains from being friends with a nobody, what he finds so fascinating about him when he's met intellectuals and probably people with a high wit quotient from every corner of the earth.

He doesn't understand.

Neither does it strike him that asking him why was a terrible idea until he does it.

****** 

Roger arrives, dressed up and in secret to John's apartment. John pulls a beanie over his mop of blond hair and shoves sunglasses over his eyes.

"I'm excited," he chirps as John dresses his face just like a masked vigilante. "You sound very excited, your highness," he says, fixing up his collar.

"Who do I have to congratulate?" Roger asks and John lets out a laugh.

"The person getting engaged doesn't know she's going to get engaged, it's all a surprise so act surprised. I hope I can count on you to do that," he tells him.

"Of course you can. I'm the king," Roger grins.

"Out of context."

"I do not understand you," Roger observes. John's steps stop, he turns back to face him, the silence of the hallway is deafening. He takes the plunge because his mind is forcing him to.

"You wanted to know me, has it helped?"

Roger runs a hand through his hair, scrubbing it. "Yeah," he hears and it's vague to John. He assumes Roger doesn't want to tell him more, he lets his eagerness go at that realisation.

"But I think there's a lot more to know," Roger elucidates, stepping into his space and not letting John have a moment to stop him from letting his palm overlap John's cheek.

Roger breathes slowly and to John it's like his senses have been amplified, he's getting everything, Roger's cologne, his cheekbones prominent under the light from the fogging window above them, how Roger's heart hammers audibly, the shift in temperature making his mouth part for more air because he can't breath when Roger is pressing their foreheads, eyes wanton and suddenly expressive.

"I really want to know–do you feel this?" Roger asks, his hold on John's face gentle enough not to hurt but strong enough to show he doesn't want to let go.

"Feel what?" He asks back, he hopes the dispirited look on his face conveys to Roger that he should back off before their eyelashes touch and before he forces John into saying things like 'he wants him'.

Which he fearfully does, he's accommodated this foreign craving for Roger into himself, hazardous though welcome.

Roger smiles, which is probably the most pathetic sight John's ever beheld, Roger's smile is a sad dying flower speaking its last wishes before wilting into the air.

"If you felt it, you would know."

******

Thirty-seven.

Thirty-six.

Thirty-five.

Thirty-four seconds for the deadline to almost have been reached and Brian loses it.

"God Ronnie aren't you going to propose?" he shouts, Anita grips the table, saving it from flinging off.

With everyone seated at the round table in Freddie's house, it was extremely easy for all to unanimously capture Ronnie in a bone-chilling stare. Mary and Dominique were the last ones to reach, with Mary in her musical reverie oblivious to the world with headphones. Dom shudders at the mention of Ronnie. Fred cannot control his stupid smirk and gets elbowed by Jim for breaking acting rules.

"Who's going to be proposed to? That's not fair no one told me–" Dom starts but then Ronnie is already on one knee beside her.

While Veronica stumbled over her words many times before finally asking Dom in stuttering syllables to marry her, John realises he should really concentrate on this live showing of his friend's engagement.

But all he can look at is Roger, all he can think of is how only moments before a car ride back from John's place had he been impossibly close.

It's like a fleeting dream.

Roger looks ecstatic, cheering along with the rest of them as Ronnie slips the ring on Dominique's finger and that smile he has seems as if he hadn't shaken up John's world with added leverage to that potential concept of them both together at all.

John forgets to clap as the confetti Freddie had packed inside a self bursting Pokémon piñata falls down on them.

Out of the blue, his mind is battered with possibilities, he doesn't want this transition. He doesn't want to experience feelings, that too for a monarch who obviously has better interests.

Suddenly the idea of Roger having somebody waiting on him is the most unappealing thought ever, suddenly he wants to take Roger to behind the mountain near the cottage, show him precious moments under the sky white with stars and make him know that he's special enough and maybe the feeling will refract. Suddenly, it makes sense to want to spend more time with him, why he was so drawn to Roger even in his thoughts.

This isn't inertia, this is love.

A camera flashes him back to the celebration, John fakes a smile, and somewhere Roger notices. He wants to talk to him but Freddie puts an arm on his shoulder.

Don't, he's told. You'll make it worse right now. Leave him be.

Even though Roger has been in the practice of listening to what others tell him to do, this time he's just going to listen, not follow.

He's reaching a breaking point, Roger can see John's back and before he can ask what is up John drags him aside, "What?"

Green eyes look at him, inquisitive, imploring and Roger stutters.

"I want to...to leave," he says, his breath on hold and it gets suffocating, nostalgic even since John is next to a wall like he was the bombing day.

His heart jumps in fear. He could have lost him that night.

He's so thankful, he could cry. Imagination didn't serve its purpose when it came to envisioning a world without John.

John smirks, "Anita and Brian snogging non-stop already grossed you out?"

Roger's eyebrows raise, "Profoundly," he enunciates. John chuckles before whispering, "I'll get the keys." Then he staggers off to the rest of the group shouting something like he needs to get him home before being executed for the treasonable offence of bringing him to party with cheap entertainment to which Freddie shouts, getting laid, aren't you?

Roger can't conceal his smile. Happiness is like a butterfly perhaps, it comes when you least expect.

John walks up to him, "Sorry, they're disgusting." Roger doesn't pay attention, his chest is swelling up in gratitude.

You are everything like the butterfly I would've wanted.

"No, they're fine. I like them," Roger says. And John wraps an arm around his shoulders, "You won't once they give you nicknames of an extinct bird." To this Roger laughs, he laughs and feels complete. No hollow of regret in him.

I'm glad that butterfly came my way.

******

"Goodnight," John says, not getting out from his tattered orange car and waving half-heartedly. Roger purses his lips and gets inside again, making John flail.

"Southside," Roger says imperatively, and John gawks. Are you serious?

"Just drive!"

"Okay okay!"

Roger's possessed, John thinks as he eyes him while driving from the side of his eyes, they're still in the palace area and Roger looks oddly like sunshine. It's not dangerous, John thinks, as he drives him to the back of the cube box building.

Roger points to an old fashioned fountain by the elongated pond and John stops. "I want you to see this," he tells him and John gets out, curious to see what exactly.

"When they buried dad, I used to come here a lot... spent most of my time alone because I thought I was putting people in danger because I'm king. That's why...I wanted to say thank you for including me today, I'm really grateful– your friends are fun people," Roger says, looking up at the sky and it tints his white shirt a watery blue.

John joins him to sit on the boundary of the fountain. "Them? Idiots honestly. But yeah, wonderful people at the end of the day. And they are your friends too. They love you already."

Roger smiles, looking at John and cool breeze hits them. "You don't have to tell me things to let me know that I'm not alone," he says, eyes piercing into him.

Roger holds his hand, "Because I know I'm not. Not anymore."

He hopes John gets it. He hopes John understands what he's trying to convert, but there's an unutterable confession hanging in between–John feels as if he's being stifled. Too much.

He jolts his hand away from Roger's, it hits against the cold air in pain. Not physical but completely another thing.

Roger frowns speaking disappointedly, "So you don't feel it."

John turns around, averting his eyes from the garden but not quite meeting Roger's as if it were lethal, "I figured you'd understand by now that I've no idea what you're getting at–"

Roger's stomach keeps getting the sensation of being painfully twisted, "I apologise...maybe I just wanted–"

"Then make me feel it," John says, "Make me feel whatever you want me to feel."

Roger opens and closes his mouth, confoundedly. "I don't think I can force you–"

"Tell me is it love?" is the question John asks and it is the answer to that, that Roger is too afraid to give.

"Love," Roger says, getting up to walk towards John and sounding every bit of a scientific cynic outsmarting an imaginative theorist, "is an unexplained phenomenon. I d-don't know...yet."

John hangs tough, his black orbs digging into Roger's and he feels submissive all of a sudden, "Not until you've felt love, Roger. It makes things clearer."

"I..." Roger starts but never finishes. The garden gets swallowed by the sound of the water pouring out of the statue of Aquarius pouring water from her jug.

"Maybe if you stopped fighting against that compulsive instinct to ignore that you feel like you love me then you would understand," John grumbles, so soft that it's barely a whisper.

"I don't know! Alright?" Roger shouts everything they're trying to figure out by saying irritates rather than explains and John gasps a bit at his anger.

Roger softens, "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have yelled–"

"It's okay to not know. It's okay to not understand– you need rest Roger, don't think too much," John says voices. You don't have to think so much about me.

Roger stands before him, brows knitted and arms hanging loosely by his sides. "John, what is happening to us?"

"Nothing. We're probably just lost in translation."

We're probably bloody idiots, John thinks.

_'No...I'm an idiot. I'm a blockhead who is stupid enough to fall in love with the king, the unbelievable guy who walked around at night wearing ridiculous PJs, looking devastatingly handsome, sporting the deepest dimple I've ever seen._

_I'm an idiot.'_

John breaks the awkward silence, "I'm going to be busy with Ronnie for a while, with the wedding and stuff."

"Alright," Roger says and flexes in the direction of the palace. John guesses that's where he puts a stop to hang out with the king. He can see the palace staff ignoring their work and watching as if a drama is playing before them and it is pretty sick because all of this is a bad scripted drama. John walks back to his car, he's okay is what he prepares to say to Freddie, but he's really not.

Roger pressed his lips in determination and turns on his heel, running back to John, jerking him off the ground in a hug. "This doesn't mean goodbye, I hope," he says under his breath after squishing the life out of him.

"No, it doesn't," John says, pulling Roger firmly once he puts him down, just so that he could return home with the fragrance of his cologne embalmed into his own jacket. Roger hugs him, his breath warm against John's neck, he spends time nuzzling the skin left uncovered by John's sweater with his nose and John, though slow to adapt, holds on, arms cradling Roger's head.

_'I'm holding you but the thought of leaving makes me miss you already.'_

_******_

Once a Siberian king had a tradition to give gifts on his birthday.

Freddie and Jim decided to spend Valentine's day watching fanvids while cuddling on the couch, Ronnie and Dom were on a honeymoon part two, Anita and Brain we're making out like always, Mary was busy composing something— this left John alone, but not that alone.

King Roger wanted to follow up, immensely inspired by the tradition, he decided that getting John on an hour-long drive with a blindfold on was the best way to cover up a surprise.

"Where are you taking me, your highness?" John asks and Roger raises a hand to quiet his driver from answering.

"If I wanted you to be aware of it, I'd have taken the blindfold off," Roger says quietly, trying to look out of the window to stop himself from staring at the man beside him because John in a blindfold was already doing slipshod things to his system.

"This is probably your kink," John says and his voice melts into Roger's ear. Gosh, this is not helping at all.

The bumpy ride is driven at varying speeds and John can't really guess where they are, having lost track of turns and traffic stops. His count and visualization were steady until Roger began to speak and the setting in the stuffy car was making things uncomfortable.

"Stop the car right there please," he hears Roger speak and feels the car haulier gracefully.

  
"Are you beheading me?" John asks curiously and Roger doesn't reply, turning him by the shoulders and just telling him to walk. The blindfold is big enough to cover his nose for the most part, and he still can't figure out where he is.

"Slowly open your eyes," Roger says like they're at séance.

"My eyes are open your highness, just get the damn blindfold off," John answers and Roger does as he's told.

And there, before him is his little cottage, no longer a derelict building in ruins but now absolutely complete. John is struck dumb in awe, he leaves Roger behind, wandering closer. He pinches himself five times. This can't be. It looks so beautiful.

Roger warbles from the back, "I added the kitchen garden bit but justice for flowers so flowers are at the back, I got another garden constructed. Liking it?"

John leaps on Roger, and Roger luckily catches him, returning the hug.

"Thank you, I–I don't know what to say, just thank you," John says, Roger's blue eyes are shining in this silent sunshine and he's pretty sure he himself is crying.

'I love you. You made a dream come alive, I can't love you more than I do right now.'

He wants to rip his lungs out screaming that he loves him but he's caught up in how Roger smiles, the most content smile playing upon his lips.

"Well there's one more thing," he says and his hands move down John's sides in a way that makes John mad with how the man he loves is a complete tease. "You can divorce Freddie, someone wants to film a show here, and I guess you can keep it open for tourists now– congratulations."

Roger says all of these things like it's the most casual thing on earth and he has absolutely any idea about how much all of that means to John. He hugs him tighter, clicking them together.

"Thank you," he says over Roger's chest and Roger embraces him, softly rubbing his back.

"And this is the part I kiss you," he whispers and John looks up, quizzically, "Roger your staff and guards are here..."

Roger grins, "Speaking of which, could you film this Susan?"

Before John can even let out one sound in protest, Roger's dipping the hell out of him, those lips over capturing his own and had he not been occupied with the enlivening kiss, he'd probably be screaming god yes.

He tastes sweet, John finally gets a touch of that blond hair as he lets his fingers course through it. He gives in to this feeling because it feels like he has everything. Roger pulls away, looking breathless and eyes slightly savage, and John swears he has never been so obsessed with anyone's lips before.

"Is this the part where you tell me–" John starts only to have Roger cut him.

"This is the part where I give you the keys the house," he tells him and then sheepishly adds, "which is where we're probably going to stay for a long time."

John beams and pushes the key in with Roger tailoring behind, hands interlocked because they never left.

**The End.**

__

_**Epilogue** _

Years pass, John and Roger spend most of their time throwing pranks on the royal staff, Susan assists, she's grown kinder to John and turns out she's got a lot of Vinyl records John loves listening to. Freddie doesn't have the guts to ask Jim to marry him so in the end the whole group does it for him, shouting after Jim a won a alumni soccer meet, "WILL YOU MARRY FREDDIE" sounded terrible against the backdrop of sweaty soccer players and hollering spectators but that one look of happiness on Jim's and Freddie's faces had been worth it. Ronnie and Dom decided to assist Mary in his studio, the album that was already good turned amazing.

If one would ask John if he had any regrets to enter the palace when he was in the hospital, he would have answered affirmatively. But now, as he stares at the rose gold setting on his finger, he would say, "Regrets? What regrets?"

He's had no regrets, and he knows he'll have no more. He doesn't regret the night he decided to help Freddie by delivering the book. He doesn't regret getting a glass piece inside his abdomen even though the scar still hurts. He doesn't regret any of the moments, good or bad or confusing, spent with the king.

There's hope, a promise and the thrill of what's ahead, John thinks as he takes Roger's hand before they step into their home.

And as for Brian and Anita, they just made out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was gonna update one chapter everyday but i can't help myself so have the entire thing in one day.

**Author's Note:**

> blame 'Merlin'


End file.
